


No More Black Hoods

by MulaSaWala



Series: Harold Finch's Halfway Home for Ex-Assassins [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s02e13 Dead Reckoning, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen, Slow Burn Harold Finch/John Reese, Unintentional Redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-08-22 23:39:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8305636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/pseuds/MulaSaWala
Summary: "You know, I was going to go with you anyway." Mark complained as he limped up the stairs to the roof. With his left arm, he braced himself against the stairwell's handrail. Reese supported him on his right. Behind them was a trail of blood from Mark's brand new bullet wound. "You should be thanking me, Mark. I could've shot you in the knees. I'm good at that." Mark huffed out a laugh, which turned into a groan as he put weight on his wounded leg. The bullet had gone clean through, not hitting bone or his femoral artery. Mark supposed that John was right about his knees, but it didn't really matter. They were both already dead, the countdown on their chests approaching the 10 minute mark. It had been nice of Kara to give them enough time to really absorb the fact that they were about to die.Cold air hit Mark in the face as Reese let him go in order to open the door. Mark followed him out 'It's not the worst way to go,' Mark thought.





	1. Chapter 1

"You know, I was going to go with you anyway _._ " Mark complained as he limped up the stairs to the roof. With his left arm, he braced himself against the stairwell's handrail. Reese supported him on his right. Behind them was a trail of blood from Mark's brand new bullet wound.

 

"You should be thanking me, Mark. I could've shot you in the knees. I'm good at that."

 

Mark huffed out a laugh, which turned into a groan as he put weight on his wounded leg. The bullet had gone clean through, not hitting bone or his femoral artery. Mark supposed that John was right about his knees, but it didn't really matter. They were both already dead, the countdown on their chests approaching the 10 minute mark. It had been nice of Kara to give them enough time to really absorb the fact that they were about to die.

Cold air hit Mark in the face as Reese let him go in order to open the door. Mark followed him out

 

 _'It's not the worst way to go,'_ Mark thought.

 

If he were being honest with himself, Mark knew that this was always how it was going to end. He was never going to die saving people, or die peacefully in his sleep. His only real regret was that he wasn't taking Kara with him.

Mark and Reese stood in the middle of the roof, the lights of the city shining around them. They looked at each other. Mark wondered if Reese regretted that Mark's would be the last face he'd see.

 

"I knew you would be here, Mr. Reese." A voice came from the darkness. Both men turned to see a bespectacled man in a three piece suit limp towards them. "Although I have to admit, Agent Snow's presence is a surprise."

 

" _Finch._ "

 

The emotion in Reese's voice made Mark look at him, surprised (although Mark was careful not to let it show on his face). He watched dispassionately as Reese had a hurried conversation with Finch. Reese gave him the hard drive ( _'good with computers'_   Mark noted) and told him to walk away. Finch ignored him and tried to convince Reese to let him try to save them all by hacking the phones. Ridiculous. But Mark began unbuttoning his shirt anyway. 7:33.

 

"John!"

 

Behind them, Carter burst through the door with some guy. She must have had about the same amount of self-preservation instinct as Reese, which was none at all, because despite the the fact that Mark and Reese quite clearly had armed bomb vests on, she moved towards them. The man she was with looked like he would rather be anywhere else. Mark could relate.

Carter and her friend rushed to Mark's side, trying to figure out how to get Mark out of the vest. Beside him, Reese stood completely still as Finch fiddled with the phone on the bomb strapped to his chest. Mark wanted to laugh because, by the look on his face, Reese was about to have an aneurism.

There were definitely worse ways to die. 4:36.

 

\---

 

The roof of Fujima Electronics exploded exactly fifteen minutes after Kara left Mark and Reese to their fates. She heard the explosion, could see it from her rear view mirror. Plumes of smoke rose from the building, illuminated by red and blue light from approaching ambulances and police cars. She smiled as she dismissed them from her mind, repeating the name of her next target in her head.

 

_'Harold Finch.'_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay first chapter! I was having trouble getting this one started, but i decided that it was okay to post it even if it wasn't perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

Mark looked at the little woman in front of him with detachment. She was seeing to Reese before him, which he thought was bit unfair. Reese was bruised, sure, but he didn't have both shoulders dislocated and a bullet hole in one thigh.

Finch, it appeared, was long gone. Mark wasn't surprised. Reese was obviously still a valuable asset to someone, but 'valuable' did not mean someone _cared_.

Mark looked around, observing his surroundings. Reese had covered Mark's head with his ATF jacket as soon as the three of them had gotten into a car, presumably the one Reese's new handler Finch had used, so Mark had no idea where they were.

The room itself was well-lit and well-ventilated; it looked almost like an upscale private doctor's office, except there were no windows. There was enough equipment there to stock three ORs, excluding the two hospital beds and an operating table.

The woman (ER Doctor, Mark guessed, or a nurse with experience. Someone used to high volume.) was efficiently and professionally wrapping a bandage around Reese's torso (to support bruised or cracked ribs, probably) when Mark spoke.

 

"If you've finished dealing with Reese's ouchies, doctor, I'd really like it if you could pop my arms back into their sockets." He said.

 

It was like the good doctor had forgotten Mark was there and she was seeing him for the first time. Almost before he was done speaking she was there at his side, checking his pulse, pupil dilation, and other doctorly things. 

 

"You're losing your edge, Mark. Was a time you would have just slammed your shoulder into the wall." Reese said smugly from the bed across from him. Mark wanted to flip him the bird.

 

"Please don't do that, Agent Snow, Dr. Tillman would just have to undo your work and do it properly."

 

Mark and Dr. Tillman jumped, looking around for Finch. But no, the voice was coming from Reese. Reese's phone. He took it out before continuing to wrap the bandages around his torso by himself, placing the phone on the rolling table in front of him.

 

"How are Carter and Fusco, Finch?" He asked. Dr. Tillman resumed her ministrations and soon Mark was paying more attention to her instructions than the quiet conversation across the room. If they were doing it through speakerphone, then nothing important was being discussed.

 

"Here, take these," Dr. Tillman said as she handed him a little plastic cup containing pills. Mark just stared at them, before darting a look at Reese. He looked right back. Finch's voice continued to speak, but Reese reached for his phone on the table and put it in handheld mode. The two agents stared at each other and the moment stretched.

 

"John, you're done, do you think you could give us a moment?" Tillman said sensing the tension in the room. Both men looked at her. "I need him to relax, and you're not helping." She added, reproachfully. 

 

Reese grinned at her, and hopped off the bed with more energy than Mark thought he had. Phone in his pocket, he walked out the door, but not before giving Mark one last look.

 

 _'Don't mess with her,'_ it said,  _'you'll regret it if you do.'_

 

Mark gave a small nod. The doctor would be safe with him. 

 

"Thank you," Tillman shut the door as soon Reese left, and Mark breathed a little easier.

 

Now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off, Mark was beginning to absorb the fact that he was under Reese's control now. At the mercy of someone that he had tried to kill  _again,_ and Mark was under no illusions that there was a way out for him this time. With Reese's shiny new conscience, at least he would probably kill him quick. Bullet to the head. In his sleep, if Reese was feeling particularly sentimental. 

 

"It probably saved your life, you know. Whatever it was that he'd had to do that offends you." Tillman was back at his side, holding the pills out again. It wasn't much of a safety precaution, but Mark took his time looking at each one before swallowing them dry. 

Afterwards, she asked him to lie down, which he did with no protest. She gently put his shoulders to right while waiting for the pain medication to kick in. The bullet wound on Mark's thigh had stopped bleeding a long time ago, but cleaning it would undoubtedly start it back up again.

Dr. Tillman spoke as she readied the operating table, hanging bags of antibiotics and blood (B minus, Mark had supplied, before she could ask. He almost told her not to bother, but really, he didn't care one way or the other.) 

Tillman told Mark all about how she met Reese, and how he'd saved her. She'd almost killed someone, but Reese (John, she kept calling him, and Mark wondered if he'd bothered to give her any surname at all) had stopped her. Mark gathered from her tone that this was a big deal to her, which told him how much she knew about Reese. Not much.

 

 _'So that's it,'_ Mark thought,  _'Reese finally found a handler that lets him play Good Samaritan.'_

 

No doubt her target had been Reese's target too. He'd taken the matter out of her hands, and gained an asset. Mark hadn't had that luxury in the CIA. If a target had found themselves between someone else's crosshairs, discretion would have obliged Mark and his team to stay out of the way. 

 

\---

 

The stitches she made were small and even. The scarring would be minimal, if he stayed alive long enough for them to heal. Mark had a small cloth bag full of antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, vicodin from the good doctor, and he kept it in a tight grip as he reclined in the back seat. There was a proper hood on his head this time and that, combined with Reese driving over what seemed like every pothole in New York, was making Mark nauseated. 

Reese hadn't said a word when Mark had left what he thought of as Dr. Tillman's office. He'd simply slipped the hood on before Mark's eyes could adjust to the dim hall, and led Mark back to the car. Mark hadn't struggled.

Mark had no idea where they were going, but all the time he'd spent with Kara had taken it's toll, so he couldn't help it when his eyelids started growing heavy. He slept.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PSA: Dislocated shoulders are not slammed into walls to pop them back in, okay? Reese was just being an asshole. One thing to do would be to relax (no tension in the muscles might let it pop back into place on it's own), but it's always best to see an actual doctor.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

They were in a library. Mark liked it, even as he silently cursed the steep steps that he had to climb. Sweat started beading on his forehead as he concentrated on the steps, ignoring the pain making itself known from every part of his body. Kara had been... bored, between orders from her own new handler. She hadn't done anything that would impair his usefulness, but that still left a wide range of... activities.

Reese held him up on one side, Mark gripped the handrail on the other, and for a moment Mark flashed back to the roof. Bomb vests and night sky. It seemed like ages ago, but morning light was just starting to peek through the library's dusty windows. Mark didn't think an abandoned library would be safe for very long; New York's homeless population no doubt made the ground floor their home, but Reese was pretty relaxed, and if nothing else, Mark trusted Reese's instincts in this matter.

A trust he regretted immediately as he heard someone coming down the stairs above them. 

 

"Mr. Reese!" Mark looked up to see Finch looking every bit as tired as Mark felt. Mark sighed in relief.

 

Finch limped his way down the stairs with crutches in his hands and it took Mark a moment to realize they were for him.

It was strange. He had thought Reese's handler was long gone, but here he was looking both worried and vexed. He took the bag Reese had been carrying on his other shoulder and helped Mark get steady.

 

"I was on my way downstairs, Mr. Reese, you should have waited." The censure was clear in his tone. There was authority there too, that had Mark instinctively straightening his spine, but if anything Reese relaxed even more beside him.

 

"You know me, Finch. Impatient."

 

"Quite," Finch hmmmed.

 

The three of them made their lopsided way up the stairs, limping and crutching and shuffling along. A dog greeted them at the top of the stairs, excited, but clearly well-trained enough to not jump up on them. Mark hung back nonetheless.

Finch kept walking, moving deeper into the stacks. The dog followed, kept pace obediently at Finch's heels, Reese and Mark trailing them. Finch hadn't even noticed that Mark had paused. But it hadn't escaped Reese's attention.

 

"Afraid of dogs, Mark?" Reese gave Mark a sideways glance, and Mark wondered if the dog was trained to maul anyone who punched Reese in the face. It was a sign of how exhausted Mark was, that he seriously gave the idea some thought.

 

"Only the ones that bite, Reese." Mark kept moving forward, following Finch deeper into the library. 

 

They found Finch standing in front of a small area in the library enclosed by metal bars. It must have been used as closed stacks once, a place for readers to peruse restricted books at their leisure. They were used in most libraries to keep rare and expensive books, but Mark didn't think Finch had brought them here for show and tell.

Inside was a couch that had clearly seen better days. It was stained from age and lumpy, but it looked soft and it was free from dust. One blanket and a pillow rested on one arm, leaving little doubt as to where Mark would be sleeping. Reese would undoubtedly take the sofa, but if he was feeling generous Mark would get the blanket to protect himself from the cold seeping up from the floor. Not that the library was cold, exactly. It just wasn't warm.

Upon closer inspection, Mark could see that there were fresh scuff marks on the floor around the couch, as well as around the end table beside it. A bottle of water placed on the table had a coaster; condensation was about to form. 

 

 _'This is what he was doing?'_ Mark had a hard time believing that Finch had taken the trouble of making sure an asset like Reese had somewhere comfortable to sleep. In the past, as an active agent and not a handler, Mark had spent many nights on concrete and been grateful it was dry. The library floor, moderately clean as it was, looked almost inviting in comparison. 

Mark entered what was essentially a cage without complaint. Reese remained behind, leaning on the metal bars. Finch nodded once and walked away.

 

"This enclosure is a Faraday Cage, Agent Snow. It will stop electronic signals from entering or leaving." Finch was saying from behind one of thw shelves. Mark wondered who Finch thought he'd try to contact. "This was the best I could do on short notice, I'm afraid, and I since you and Mr. Reese are of a size, I hope--"

 

Finch returned, stopping short as soon as he caught sight of Mark, who (feeling presumptuous) had made himself comfortable on the floor with the blanket  _and_ the pillow. 

 

"Did... did you fall down, Agent Snow? Perhaps it will be unwise to leave you alone when you've consumed painkillers if--"

 

Finch cut himself off and turned questioningly at Reese, who just stood there grinning like an asshole. Mark felt like he was missing something. Finch turned back to him and held out whatever it was that he'd gotten. Mark accepted it gingerly; he didn't know what to do with it once he had it in his hands. It turned out to be a shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Very soft and probably very expensive.

 

"These will be more conducive to a good night's rest, Agent Snow. The bathroom is right down there," he gestured to he left, "And Mr. Reese and I shall be over there." He gestured down a hallway behind Mark. "I hope it isn't necessary to remind you that there is a security system in place, and it would be preferable if you remained with us for the time being. "

 

Mark nodded and Finch began walking down the hall where he had preciously indicated, satisfied. His dog followed him, still obediently at his heels. Mark couldn't see, but Reese must have waited for Finch to be out of earshot before he spoke.

 

"If you touch him, I will kill you." The look on his face said it would  _hurt_.

 

And,  _wow_ , if Mark had thought Reese had been threatening in Dr. Tillman's office, _this_ look was something else entirely. 

Reese shuffled down the hallway Finch had gone, not bothering to lock the metal grate after himself, his pained movement reminding Mark that his next painkiller was due five minutes ago. As he reached for the bottle of water, Mark realized that the couch was  _for him_. The clothes he held in his other hand had been been bought for Reese, but now they were his to wear. 

Mark changed clothes quickly, not bothering to do so in the bathroom, and swallowed a pill before settling himself on the sofa.

As he luxuriated in the soft cushions and even softer pillow, he pulled the clean-smelling, probably expensive, blanket up to his chest and took stock of where he was. There was a bathroom nearby, he could see a pile of hot pockets and a microwave in the corner, and he was surrounded by books.

All things considered, this was probably his favorite jail cell so far.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, Mark's injuries were more severe than they'd all realized. A combination of adrenaline and Vicodin had masked it, and now he was paying the price. Mark woke up to almost unbelievable pain, unable to move. He'd had both shoulders dislocated before, of course, but never at the same time, and it was terrifying to be so helpless. 

Mark tried to leverage himself up, but it was no use. A twinge in his leg reminded him that his lower extremities weren't a hundred percent either, but Mark really had to go to the bathroom and he didn't want to ruin his perfectly soft couch.

Without exhaustion and latent fear from Stanton's parting gift clouding his judgement, Mark was finally thinking clearly again. It was useless to wonder if he should have attempted escape last night. He hadn't, and now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions (or inaction, as it were).

Even from his low vantage point, Mark could see that the door was closed. But was it locked? Even in his injured and partially drugged state, he was sure that he would have awoken had someone moved the metal grate that served as the door to his cell. As much as it would warn Reese should he attempt to open it, the grate's noise would warn him if someone from the outside should open it as well.

It was sheer force of will that got Mark to his feet, and a stubborn streak a mile wide that kept him there. The antibiotic and anti-inflammatory pills were swallowed dry, but he couldn't afford to take the painkillers he had in his pocket (who knows when he'd have access to them again? No, better to become accustomed to the pain now), so it was agony to make his awkward way over to the door.

But before he could get there, Reese appeared from out of nowhere, a fresh bottle of water and a bedpan in his hands. Damn it.

He was also holding a brown paper bag, from which wafted the scent of food. It smelled delicious. Reese slid open the metal grate ( _'Unlocked, then,'_ Mark thought) and walked inside, not bothering to close it. Mark gave the open door behind Reese a brief glance, before following him back to the sofa. Reese was sporting a pretty good shiner and no doubt more injuries under his suit, but it didn't take a genius to figure out which one  of them would win a physical confrontation.

 

\---

 

After three days of this, Mark was going stir crazy. Reese was no help, he hadn't said more than a dozen words to Mark, who knew firsthand how effective silence was as an interrogation tool. Kara may have been the one to apply _enhanced_ _interrogation techniques_ between the two of them, but Mark was seriously beginning to wish Reese would at least tell him what he _wanted_ , because Mark honestly had no idea and it was driving him nuts.

Did they think he knew what Kara was doing? Did they need to know what the CIA had on Reese? _Why was Mark still alive?_

When Reese came back that day (he had already been given food and had his bedpan emptied), he had nothing with him. He looked pissed.

 

 _'That can't be good,'_ Mark thought, and prepared himself for the worst. Maybe Kara had enjoyed it more, but Reese was perfectly capable of everything she did.

 

\---

 

Mark was sweating bullets from more than just pain when Reese helped him into a chair in a different part of the library. It was comfortable enough, the seat was padded, but the fact that Reese had zip tied his arms and legs to the chair was not reassuring. Finch sat in front of six monitors nearby, typing rapidly into a keyboard. Mark couldn't see what he was doing, but he was doing it fast. The dog relaxed at his feet, gnawing lazily on a toy.

Reese gave him the _look_ , and walked away. He didn't come back, which let Mark relax marginally. It takes a while, but Finch slowed down eventually.

 

"I apologize for keeping you waiting, Agent Snow. How are you?" Finch asked. Mark just stared at him. What.

 

"You're in pain, of course, here." Finch got up and approached him. He held out a clear plastic bag that contained more painkillers, but stopped short when he caught sight of the zip ties. He put the painkillers in his pocket and examined the ties.

 

"Are these really necessary?" Finch's mouth twisted, clearly just thinking out loud, and Mark bit his cheek bloody to keep in the sarcastic _Yes_ on the tip of his tongue. Had he been even marginally less injured, the restraints would have been nothing but a delay. He would have been gone less than five minutes after Reese had left.

As it was, the only thing that kept him from attempting escape now was the fact that his arms were still in agony, his leg only a little less so. There had been two slings with the pills he'd gotten from Dr. Tillman, and Mark knew that constantly using his arms were keeping them from healing, but not only could Mark not put them on by himself (and he couldn't ask Reese for obvious reasons), he couldn't afford to have his arms restrained when the opportunity to escape presented itself.

 

"I can see that a taciturn mien is something they teach operatives at the CIA."

 

Finch sighed and called the dog over. Mark was instantly tense again, but the dog (Bear, Finch called him) didn't do anything. A command from Finch got him to rest at Mark's feet, a warm body against Mark's leg, and that was it. Finch limped back to his monitors and that was that. Mark could sense that he wanted to say more, had meant to say more, but Finch kept silent until Reese returned.

Finch must have given Reese the painkillers, who dutifully passed them along when he locked Mark back into his cell that night, but Mark just added them to his stockpile. He might need them soon. But a part of Mark wondered why he even wanted to escape. The Agency probably thought he was dead, and telling them otherwise would just lead them into making it true.

 

 _'Nothing waiting for me back there but a black hood,'_ Mark was sure, and he let that thought lull him back to sleep for the night despite the pain.

 

 

\---

 

Sitting there tied to a chair became a daily routine. _That_ should have been the thing that irritated Mark, because being in a small cell where he could at least while away the time reading was preferable to being zip tied to a chair for an entire day, but he _didn't mind_ , and the fact that he didn't was the thing irritating him.

Finch was always there, on his computer, or talking to John and feeding him information on their targets. In between, he talked to Mark, who replied or not as he pleased. It was... confusing.

 

"Agent Snow, did you know that minting pennies and nickels cost twice as much as the currency itself is worth?--"

 

"It's appalling how many people believe that vaccines cause autism, Agent Snow--"

 

"Would you like some more science fiction books, Agent Snow? I see you've taken a shine to Piers Anthony. I prefer Asimov myself--"

 

Mark had once told Carter that, while Reese was good at hiding, he was good at finding people. Not just their physical locations, though he was good at that too; what Mark truly excelled at was finding out what made people tick.

 

He had seen Stanton's sadistic streak in its infancy, had seen Reese's need to play hero. _'Found you,'_ he'd thought, and assembled his team. They'd had one of the highest success rates at the Agency.

 

Now he looked at Finch (Harold, as Reese sometimes called him), watched him drink his prissy tea, watched him discard half-eaten donuts with too many sprinkles, and tried to figure out who Harold Finch was, because Mark wasn't buying this Good Samaritan act that Reese was so eager to believe.

Mark could make a good guess as to what they were doing. They were 'helping people'. But Mark knew there was always a price to pay, and that this was only a performance. Why else would they bring him out here to watch?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm torn. Should I make this an OT3? I'm on the fence about it. :P
> 
> Also, if the quality seems to be declining in some way, Yes, I see it too, but I'm trying to do Nano November, so I'm not being as conscientious as I would prefer to be. 
> 
> This was kind of a filler chapter, just more Mark being Mark, but I needed context for what happens next, I guess? I'm trying to compare the experience of writing a traditionally paced fic, and one where I jump from point to point as I please (like in the In Any Other World series). So far, both approaches have their pros and cons. :P
> 
> Also, I was planning on making this fic entirely from Mark's perspective, but as it turns out I want a lot of things to happen out of his sight even if they still involve him, and I don't know how to do that without using someone else as an anchor or whatever. Does anyone have any tips?


	5. Chapter 5

Mark woke up to the faraway sound of rattling metal. Sunlight shone through a nearby window, illuminating dust motes as they hung in the air. It was midmorning at the earliest. Already, Mark’s various aches and pains were making themselves known as the fog of sleep lifted, but that wasn’t important right now.

 

Something _new_ was happening.

 

For the past few days, a routine had established itself.  Reese would wake him up before crack of dawn, feed him, hive him time to do his business in the bucket he had provided, then transfer Mark to what he thought of as _his_ chair before Finch arrived in the morning.

Mark didn't mind. Finch's meandering way of pumping Mark for information was not unpleasant, Mark had decided, and was infinitely better than some of the things that had been done to Mark to retrieve information.

The problem was the trek from Mark's closed stacks to the area where Finch worked. It was getting harder as time went by, which was... unpleasant. Mark was healing, yes, but it seemed his injuries would feel worse before they felt better. This didn't deter Reese from cuffing Mark's hands together before he went to sleep, though. It was understandable, but not comfortable.

The former agent shivered a little at the brisk morning air and snuggled a bit more into his thick blanket, taking further stock of his surroundings. His arms hurt, and his leg throbbed, but the comforting weight of all the painkillers he'd saved so far rested gently against his thigh from inside his pocket. This many pills could give him a thousand dollars on the street, easily. If ( _When_ ) Mark escaped, a thousand could keep him under the radar for months.

Mark winced as his back reminded him that he wasn't in his twenties anymore, and that, soft as this couch was, it didn't really offer any lumbar support.

Mark wanted to tell his back to suck it up.

 

"Good morning, Agent Snow."

 

Mark snapped to focus, looking at Finch as he approached, the smell of breakfast preceding him. Mark was amused to see that, unlike Reese, Finch had not been content to give Mark a brown paper bag. Although most likely still take-out, the food was on an actual plate. Several of them, actually, being wheeled over on a book trolley.

Mark sat up, showing his tied hands to Finch, who nodded before inserting the key into the lock of the closed stacks. Aside from the first night, Reese had been diligent in keeping Mark secure.

 

"I'm afraid a number came in during the night," Finch explained his presence as he entered. "Mr. Reese is otherwise occupied, but he intimated that certain precautions were taken to discourage you from leaving, so I could attend to you today."

 

Mark wondered why Finch was volunteering all this information, but decided to focus on the important part.

A _number_.

Just days into his captivity, Mark already knew what that meant. He didn't know how (or why) yet, but Mark knew that a number was a person. Their next target. Sometimes the number was sent to prison, sometimes they avoided being the victim of someone (who would now be going to prison). It was... strange.

Mark couldn't sense a pattern, yet. It wasn't sex, age, race, political affiliation. Mark couldn't discern what these ordinary people had done to find themselves in the cross-hairs of such a powerful organization.

Which is what this was. Because, although he hadn't encountered anyone other than his two captors, there _had_ to be an army of other spooks out there. The intel they received couldn't be as accurate as it was if there wasn't.

 

"I apologize for the inconvenience, Agent Snow, but I'll try to make this as quick as possible."

 

Mark must have lost himself in his thoughts (stupid, _stupid_ ), because Finch was now holding a spoon in front of him. There was a small amount of food on it, a bit of scrambled egg and beans. Bacon.

Mark looked at the filled utensil in Finch's hand like it was an alien thing. He didn't know what to do with it, so he turned back to Finch, who was watching him expectantly. Was Finch taunting him? Would he pull the spoon away at the last second? It was a bit petty, Mark thought, but not really harmful, not if Reese swung by later to feed Mark as Reese usually did.

Little cruelties were often more effective than outright torture (something he had never been able to teach Stanton). If you have the time, starve the target, deny access to a toilet, keep them naked.  Not that torture worked, but if the order was specific, Mark preferred the less troublesome option.

So, no, he wasn't surprised to find Finch playing mind games after his laughably indirect interrogations didn't work. But this seemed so... out of character? Reese was more straightforward, and Finch struck Mark as being more _subtle_ than this.

Mark supposed he should play along at least, act surprised when Finch pulled the food away at the last second, but he couldn't be bothered. He just sat there, staring at the spoon.

When Mark didn't do anything, Finch sighed and put the spoon down to take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose.

 

"I'm sorry, Agent Snow, I realize this is unappealing," his mouth twisted into an expression Mark recognized as deprecating (which didn't make sense, but Mark had learned to trust his instincts about these things, so he let it go, to be examined at a later date).

"But your arms cannot heal if you insist on using them. I suggest that we get this over with as quickly as possible, if it makes you uncomfortable."

 

Finch had an unnerving stare, telling Mark that assistance in this matter was not negotiable. Well, far be it for Mark to pick this hill to die on. Pretend surprise was the order of the day.

He opened his mouth the next time Finch brought up the spoon. Mark was surprised to find the food delicious.

 

\---

 

 

Finch kept feeding Mark long after he was full. Mark would have said something, _was going to say something_ , but every time he opened his mouth after swallowing, the infernal spoon was back. He would catch sight of his captor's decidedly earnest expression, and Mark would resign himself to swallowing at least this one bite.

Rinse, repeat.

Once all the food was gone ( _'Thank god,'_ ), Finch got up and asked Mark if he would like to use the bathroom now.

Mark nodded, and waited for Finch to leave so he could use the bucket (the bedpan was thankfully short-lived) with some privacy. But no, he was wrong again.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Mark to the actual bathroom down the hall. It didn't escape Mark's notice that, as soon as they had left the closed stacks, the dog was underfoot, sticking to Finch like a second shadow.  So, Reese hadn't left his handler _completely_ without protection.

 

\---

By the time Reese returned, Mark had been seated at his chair for hours. He could see the set of Reese's jaw _change_ the moment he saw that Finch hadn't restrained Mark as diligently as possible.

Reese was well-trained enough to keep his expression neutral, and to keep his voice level as he greeted Finch exclusively, but he couldn't hide the fact that he was annoyed over the way Finch had put on Mark's slings for him, and had simply attached those to the chair. Reese was obviously weighing the pros and cons of telling his employer that Mark had been basically untied for the entire day, and Mark thought it was  _hilarious._

Finch had helped Mark redress his wounds while Reese was away. He had helped with the rehab stretches for Mark's leg. He had done everything short of wiping Mark's ass after a bowel movement and Reese had absolutely no idea that any of that had happened, and the thought cheered Mark up because it would piss Reese off when he found out.

No doubt about what this was, though. It was courtesy for the dying. Orders had probably come down to eliminate him, and they were making his final days as comfortable as they could. Mark found he didn't mind that much.

Later that night, he helped himself to one of the pain killers and slept easy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Confused Mark is confused.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of trouble with this chapter, but enjoy! :D

 

 

There wasn't really a functioning clock inside the library. Mark had noted that before, clinically cataloguing all that he could, but the implications of it was coming to him in degrees. One of them was that he couldn't be certain how late it actually was, only that the sun had set some time ago.

 

Mark heard Reese's footsteps coming back before Finch did, and Mark didn't bother telling Finch that his two guard dogs were back. Bear, while perfectly happy having spent the day with Reese, was eager to return to Finch's side, running in ahead of Reese. His tongue lolled out happily as the bespectacled man scratched him behind the ears.

 

"Oh, is it time to put me back in the dungeon?" Mark said, as soon as Reese was within eyesight and earshot. "Maybe I'd rather stay out here for the night, keep Harold company. He works very late sometimes."

 

There wass obvious flattery in his voice, intended to annoy Reese (Mark was dead either way), and to ingratiate himself to Finch. There was enough truth in it, Mark supposed, that some sincerity would make itself known.

Reese just grunted (boring), but it was Finch's response that drew Mark's attention.

 

"Dungeon?" Finch asked, a little concern and distress in his voice.

 

 _'Are you not comfortable?'_ was the unspoken question.

 

Mark was taken aback a little, not expecting that response.

 

"Calm down, Finch, it was just a joke," Reese cut in, smooth voice grating over every one of Mark's nerves. He stood in front of Mark as he untied him (slings restrained now, he'd shown Finch how to do it properly), deliberately cutting Finch off from Mark's line of sight.

 

"Ah, yes, well," Mark could almost see Finch make one of those lightning quick smiles, and Mark mentally shook himself off, told himself soon, reminded himself that, if they were about to kill him, he had to escape soon.

 

\---

 

Finch was helping him get into the bathtub (Mark very carefully did not ask why there was a bathtub in a library), when the opportunity to escape presented itself (as he knew it would).

 

Finch did not have to do it, was the foremost thought in Mark's head. Like a broken record player. Everything Finch helped Mark with. _He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to do that. He didn't have to do that._

 

Finch made the mistake of removing Mark's slings before Mark was fully in the tub. So that he could brace himself as Finch helped maneuver the bandaged leg? Mark wasn't entirely sure. But it was enough.

Mark had Finch by the throat, pressed up against the bathroom tile, before the older man knew what was happening. Mark had probably just set back his own recovery for weeks.

Not that he could feel it. A few painkillers more than the recommended dosage took the edge off the pain, making it dull. Background static.

 

"Mr. Snow, _please,_ " Finch gasped, and Mark eased up a bit on his throat (knock him out, not _kill him_ ). Finch's hands pushed at Mark's bare chest, nails too short to do anything more than leave vaguely pink lines. Bare chest?

 

It took Mark a moment to remember that he was still in nothing but a pair of white boxer shorts for his bath. It was a nod to his modesty, more for Finch's benefit than Mark's, but when Mark remembered, he arranged his face into a sinister smile.

Reese would be gone for _hours_ yet.

 

Finch was just too good to be true (and that meant that he _wasn't_ ), and Mark wanted to _push his buttons_ for being such a good liar. Easily restraining both of Finch's hands with one of his own, he flashed his teeth as he got all up in Finch's personal space. Getting answers out of the smaller man ( _What agency are you working for? Why haven't you killed me yet? What do you want from me?_ ) was almost secondary.

 

 

...

 

 

And it would have worked too, except Reese had come back early.

 

It was only later that Mark would put together what must have happened. Reese asking for information, only to find that Harold had been away from his computer for far too long. Had come rushing back to find Bear waiting anxiously in front of a normally open bathroom door.

But at the moment, Mark only registered a loud noise (the door banging open) and pain, more than the vicodin could handle, as he was flung to the floor and his arm twisted behind him, knee firmly planted on the small of his back.

 

Harold had to separate them when Reese didn't let up.

 

The pain was making Mark hazy, so he couldn't quite concentrate, but before he knew what had happened, he was restrained in his chair again, Bear now guarding him instead of acting as a foot warmer.

 

 _'Good riddance,_ _'_ Mark lied to himself, head bowed.

 

A long moment passed before Mark noticed blood trickling out of his nose, dripping down onto his white shorts. Reese must have knocked his face onto the tiles. Nose didn't feel broken though. Mark wanted to laugh.

 

Even now, Reese was _too fucking soft_.

 

In the next room, Mark could hear as Finch reminded Reese that they were "essentially keeping Agent Snow prisoner, Mr. Reese," and, softer "our own first meeting was far from auspicious, John, please be patient," whatever that meant.

 

By the time Harold and John returned, Mark had passed out ("or just gone too sleep," John groused), and had to be carried back to the bathroom. John wiped Mark down  ("That's why you were in the bathroom, right?") before putting clothes on him and bringing him back to his cell by himself, unwilling to let Harold too close.

 

The two of them left the library together, heading to John's loft without a word.

 

They had a long overdue conversation coming.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, in this chapter, I think Harold was relying a bit too heavily on his own experiences when helping Mark. Harold himself needed a lot of help with his leg after the ferry bombing, and John similarly needed a wheelchair after he had been shot by Evans. 
> 
> Maybe he failed to take into account that Mark's leg was not as injured as his and Reese's had been, so he doesn't quite expect that Mark could remain on them long enough to threaten him? idk :P
> 
> also, why did Mark stick around? why not just knock harold out and then hightail it out of the library? Well, personally, I think he took one too many vicodin, and his decision making skills were not at their best.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just started listening to the "Unofficial Soundtrack of Person of Interest - Season 1"
> 
> It's fun, but somehow anxiety inducing? Like, my brain was expecting it to fade out into dialogue or something, but it KEEPS NOT DOING THAT? AND IT'S LIKE, MY BRAIN IS GOING "HOW DARE?" 
> 
> so, you know, I'm definitely going to do this again
> 
> and again
> 
> and again
> 
> until my brain gets used to it. because it's really nice. Very chill, and jazzy, and dramatic? I think I'm going to be listening to it when I write the fics that aren't very far from canon. Like, it's not going to fit too much into the rinch fics in my Omegaverses series (and I realize that it's completely Rinch right now, but that could chaaange).
> 
> Update: After about 5 songs, I tapped out. I was too distracted trying to figure out which songs went to which episodes. I am weak. T_T
> 
> Another Update, wow, this chapter is really giving me trouble: So, I was reading the POI Wiki page for the pilot, and I came across this gem
> 
> According to the writers, during filming of one of the scenes in this episode [the pilot], Jim Caviezel ran out of frame. The film crew had to pull Caviezel off a guy who decided to beat up his girlfriend. (https://twitter.com/POIWritersRoom/status/638899410265444352)
> 
> WHAT. WHAAAT. MY BRAIN IS SHORT CIRCUITING RIGHT NOW.
> 
> Last Update: I watched the pilot episode again, because of the soundtrack, and ended up crying, because of course I'm going to cry, that's why I can't have this show running in the background. It's too intense. And I get bummed out because I know he's going to dieeeee 
> 
> v(ಥ ̯ ಥ)v

 

_Drip, drip, drip_

 

The first thing Mark became aware of was that sound, familiar, after years in the Agency. He concentrated on it, waiting for... something. Pain, most likely. The familiar feeling of interrogation drugs. But no, nothing, just the phantom sensation of pain. He'd always found that peculiar, the feeling that something _should_ hurt, but didn't.

 

"We know you're awake, Mark." Ah, Reese was here. Mark opened his eyes.

 

The two of them were here, actually, sitting on chairs in his charmingly book-filled dungeon. Mark was tempted to ask how long he'd been out, how long they'd been waiting for him to wake up, maybe make a joke about how watching someone sleep was creepy (it didn't feel that way, was the thing; in Mark's experience it was _boring_ ). Instead,

 

"Is this the interrogation, finally?" Mark asked, sitting up. No restraints, so he ripped the IV out of his arm. More of that phantom sensation.

 

"No, Agent snow, this is a job offer."

 

Finch looked disapprovingly at his now bleeding arm, which gave Mark some perverse satisfaction. At least he got straight to the point. By far the worst interrogations Mark had gone through were the ones conducted by proxy.

 

"No, it's not. You obviously have a horde of agents out there, just put me out of my misery."

 

Silence.

 

Then,

 

"How much do you know about what Agent Stanton was doing, Agent Snow?"

 

Mark weighed his options. One was keeping silent, dragging it out. Unlike Reese, Mark wasn't a masochist, however, so Option Two: say something.

He considered the blood dripping down his arm, followed the dripping IV line back to its source. Non-steroidal, Anti-inflamatory. _Of course._

 

Mark sighed.

 

"Not much more than Reese here. She might be crazy, but she's definitely working for someone new. Decima Technologies." Mark laughed a little to himself, amused. "Looks like both my agents have left the nest, working for their own agencies."

 

"You proud of us, Mark?" John leaned forward, flashing what Mark thought of as his Business Smile.

 

Your body was a tool, according to the CIA, and you have to know how to use your tools properly. Mark remembered spending hours, days, practicing facial expressions, tone of voice. They were just as important as knowing how to aim a gun, something he'd never been able to teach Reese and Stanton. Not that he'd tried very hard.

 

So Mark flashes a Business smile right back.

 

Finch actively ignored them; Mark didn't blame him.

 

"What do you know about Decima, Agent Snow?"

 

 _'That it's a stupid name, and you can't tell if they want to say decimal point, or decimate.'_ Mark wanted to say. 

 

"Private Intelligence firm. They wanted what was in that suitcase, in Ordos. That's how they got Kara."

 

"Do you know where Kara is now, Mark?" Reese asked.

 

"No, John, I don't."

 

There was a brief pause while everybody seemed to take a breath, Finch and Reese making eye contact. Finch removed his glasses to clean them (with a special cloth he kept in his breast pocket. Not his shirt, or a handkerchief, _of course not_.)

 

Finch sighed.

 

"I'm sorry for having kept you captive, Agent Snow."

 

Mark snorted before he could stop himself.

 

"Does that mean you're letting me go?" he said sarcastically.

 

Silence.

 

"I meant what I said about the black hoods, Mark." Reese again, wearing his Earnest Face this time.

 

_'Fuck it.'_

 

"Fuck you, John."

 

Finch continued to ignore them, considering his words, probably. There wasn't really a tactful way to say "We're going to keep you prisoner indefinitely until you die or we kill you", but if anyone could do it, it was Finch.

 

"Agent Snow, if we were to let you go, would you continue your pursuit of Mr. Reese?"

 

_'What,'_

 

"Harold, no."

 

Mark felt a bit removed. It felt like someone else was speaking,

 

"Nothing in it for me, Finch. John is right. If the Agency finds out I'm not actually dead, they'll _make_ me dead just to avoid extra paperwork."

 

"Then, yes. We'll let you go. Eventually."

 

A beat of silence, before Finch went on.

 

"Once you're better, you'll be free to go, Mr. Snow. I can provide you with a new identity and enough funds to get away, start over far away from here."

 

Too much, too much

 

"Wait," Mark was disgustingly proud of keeping his voice even. "You said something about a job."

 

More eye contact between Finch and Reese; Mark didn't care right now.

 

"I know what I said, Mr. Snow. How about we get you healthy first, then we'll revisit the matter."

 

The two men get up, Reese more eager to leave than Finch. Whatever the plan had been, Mark had a feeling _that_ , that offer, hadn't been part of it.

 

"Wait."

 

Both of them paused. Mark wished he were standing up, not sitting on the couch, the _sofa_ Finch had provided. For him. Mark looked for words, any words, to say.

 

"I want to see carter. And her friend."

 

_'What.'_

 

Reese raised an eyebrow. "You're not in any position to make demands, Mark."

 

"No, it's not," Mark made a sound of frustration, "It's not a _demand_. Just, I'm letting you know. That I want to see them."

 

Reese and Finch looked at each other again. Mark wished he could understand what they were saying.

 

"We'll think about it, Mark."

 

They leave for good this time.

 

Mark was left in his cage for the whole day. Soon, everyone was gone, even Finch and Bear. He was left with food and water, but Mark didn't know if he liked it, being alone.

 

(He hated it.)

 

 

 --- BONUS ---

 

The thing about electronics, cyberwhatevers, digital devices, was that Kara Stanton did not care for them at all. Give her a good gun and a target any day. But now that she was chasing a ghost, she had no choice. She wasn't a luddite, not by far, but there was _so much_ she didn't understand about... all of it.

Fortunately, computers still had people behind them that she could point a gun at, and while no one knew anything about someone named Harold Finch, she did get a lead on someone _big_. Someone who _would_ know who Harold Finch was and, if not, help her find him.

 

Someone called _Root_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAHHH, CLIFFHANGER!
> 
> So, explanation time. Harold says that it's a job offer, not an interrogation, then proceeds to interrogate Mark. Why?
> 
> My thinking is that Harold was taking his cues from Mark himself. Harold could see that Mark needed some control, or some order, just _something_ that made sense to him. Please note that Kara had kept Mark prisoner for months, and that their arrangement was very different from what Harold and John were doing. 
> 
> Anyway, basically, Mark wanted/expected it to be an interrogation, so that's what Finch did.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [Zaniida](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida)
> 
> I hope you like this chapter!
> 
> Set for the first time they leave Mark alone for more than 24 hours, because Harold and John usually take turns keeping an eye on him.

 

 

Harold wanted to give Agent Snow bathroom access. Reese wanted to just give him a bucket.

Mark watched them argue with detachment, until Reese abruptly clamped his mouth shut, and Mark _knew_ what he had been about to say.

 

_We've been through worse, Finch, it's not a big deal._

 

Except that it _was_ a big deal. To Finch. And Mark knew why Reese had suddenly silenced himself. Knowing that they'd borne this indignity in the past would have upset Finch. He knew what they were, what they'd done, but perhaps he didn't quite know the extent of what they'd had done to them. And Reese wanted to keep it that way.

 

So be it.

 

"I can't walk that far alone anyway, Finch. The bucket is fine for now," Mark said.

 

Both men turn to look at him in surprise, Harold perhaps a little embarrassed that they'd been speaking as if he weren't there.

 

"Are you quite certain, Agent Snow?" Harold inquired, a look that's half worry, half disbelief on his face.

 

The look on Reese's face told him he'd better say yes, and make Harold buy it too, or he'd make Mark sorry.

Mark didn't give a fuck about Reese and his empty threats, but he didn't want worry to disturb Harold's rest tonight, while they were off doing god knows what. He knew how distressing it had been for Finch to hear Reese getting shot at earlier today, and that he tended to look more tired in the days after Reese sustained an injury.

So Mark had said he was sure, and let every one of his injuries show in the way he moved as he got ready to sleep. Harold sighed and let himself be ushered away by Reese, who threw Mark a look before they left. Not thanks, exactly, but something close enough for government work.

Whet they had locked the grate behind them, Mark allowed himself a snort in amusement. Reese really had lost his edge. But Mark was beginning to like the new Reese. Or, rather, the one he had been before the job and Kara had gotten a hold of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have a layout for the library in mind, but in my school, the sections are pretty separate from one another. Like, if you lock a grate between two sections, then you're pretty much confined to that part of the library. So John and Harold could conceivably give Mark bathroom access without giving him access to other parts of the library. This probably wouldn't work if Mark was 100% (or maybe even 50% lol), but since he's still injured, it would have worked.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIC SPOILER ALERT
> 
> this is a chapter that takes place in the future. (posted on 20 June 2017)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> CONTAINS
> 
> the fact that Mark becomes a full member of team machine. I don't know how much of a spoiler this actually is, but better safe than sorry.

"Let me take this one, Finch,"

 

Mark wondered why he was insisting on taking the case, a woman working for a shady real estate company.

 

"Are you sure you're up for it, Mr. Snow?" Harold said, "One child, female, and a dog. Divorced, and active on dating apps, that might be our way in." Harold went on as he attached pictures to the board.

 

Mark removed his reading glasses and put down his book at Harold's reply. There was no incentive for Mark, really. No promotion, or pay bump, or clearance upgrade, no reason at all for him to volunteer, except that a week without numbers was making him restless. It looked simple enough, and Finch was usually extremely busy at his terminal, updating their various cover identities. The library was hot, stifling. And with Harold busy, Mark's only company was Reese, who was being his usual insufferable self, lounging around on the furniture, a book he wasn't reading held in his hand.

 

Mark straightened his tie as he went to get his guns.

 

"I may not be able to charm the information out of her like Pretty Boy here--"

 

Finch interrupted Mark and himself, saying absently, "I think you're very handsome, Mr. Snow," which made both Mark and Reese stare at him. Finch reacted to the sudden increase in their attention, falling suspiciously silent when he had been keeping up a constant stream of information before.

 

It was amusing. You could almost hear his brain buffering, and the two agents smiled when Finch's ears turned pink as he _got it_.

 

"Be on your way, Mr. Snow," Finch said, and Mark held in his smile until he was out of the Library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic was supposed to be more like this? just for fun? idk when it became so serious, but apparently that's where the story wants to go? What do you think?
> 
> P.S. Finch got embarrassed because he didn't mean to say that out loud, lol.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would love some feedback.


End file.
